untamed wolves
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: He wish they'd follow his lead and banish people because then he'd be out there and doing something. More than trapped, he feels useless, refusing to believe his people are gone, knowing they are somewhere and probably need his help.


It's being six days.

Six days between those four metallic walls, six days without the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, six days of only seeing people when they bring him meals – nothing but roots and nuts and water, and he wants to scoff because it's been a week and they're still not hunting yet. He wonders – _knows_ – if this is how Octavia felt, trapped and stripped of her freedom. He feels like suffocating, a slow and horrible death for the one that once was leader, that once was free.

Oh he's tried escaping, of course – a wolf can never be tamed – but to no avail, the cattle prod digging in his ribs after only a few minutes outside. He almost wants to laugh when they throw him back in his cage, for they are so at lost now that they can no longer float people and be done with it.

He wish they'd follow his lead and banish people because then he'd be _out there_ and _doing_ something. More than trapped, he feels useless, refusing to believe his people are gone, knowing they are somewhere and probably need his help.

It's been six days, and he's let the kids down.

What else is new?

The door to his cell opens in a loud creaking noise, startling him. (Has he lost track of time, is it already this late?) But the figure in the doorframe doesn't belong to a guard, golden mane of hair catching in the light, and he gasps. Bellamy doesn't believe in ghosts, he doesn't believe in anything these day, but – but this might be an illusion, something his brain just made up.

She can't be here.

And yet she is, clothes torn, a nasty cut on her nose, her mouth opening in surprise at the sight of him. She doesn't move as he jumps to his feet, sore muscles screaming in pain at the sudden move.

"Clarke," he whispers, loud enough for her name to echo in the emptiness of his cell.

"You're alive," she replies, voice breathless and quivering.

She moves then, stopping right in front of him as her wild eyes take him in. At least he's halfway clean now, her mother having tended to his wound and washed his face caked with blood, but he can only guess what he must look like now – a wild beast, an untamed monster. She takes him in and he returns the favour – she looks pale but well, and maybe he's imagining things but her cheeks seem rounder, her skin glowing somehow.

Tears pool at the corners of her eyes, and Bellamy freaks out a little bit, so he finds himself saying in an all-too mocking voice, "Come on, princess. We're not gonna hug."

But he opens his arms to her anyway, a silent invitation – you don't have to ask her twice before she throws herself at him, arms around his neck and nose pressed to his throat. He can't remember the last time they touched, memories clouded by hallucinogenic nuts and his own guilt, but this – this is something else, something more. She holds on to him like to dear old life, warm tears wetting his shirt, as he wraps his arms around her waist and buries his nose in her hair.

Bellamy only allows himself to think _this feels nice_, mind forbidden from wandering any further. This is Clarke, after all, she deserves better than his dirty thoughts, deserves to be cherished and worshipped, deserves so much more. And so he holds her as she comes undone in his arms – the nerves snapping, he guesses, for she is too stubborn to show such weakness, too proud to ask for help and comfort.

"It's okay," he whispers, hoping he sounds half as reassuring as he thinks himself to be. "You're okay. You're safe."

But she shakes her head into his chest, and a heavy weight drops in his stomach. Of course it wouldn't be that easy, of course they're not out of the woods quite yet.

She wipes the tears away when she stands straighter, cheeks flushed and eyes so blue he could lost himself in them – she's beautiful, and he wonders how he never noticed it before. Bad timing and all that jazz, probably.

"The others, they… I managed to escape, but they're still over there."

"Where?" Because it's the only question to ask.

"Mount Weather. I tried, but they wouldn't listen, and I had no other choice but to – I didn't have a choice."

And so she explains everything to him, from the creepy president to the food and clothes and music, the way she escaped with Anya and how nobody would follow her. She explains in details, her first suspicions and how she found a way out, the grounder warrior the only one as motivated as she was to escape. She explains it all as she follows him outside – he blinks when the bright sun blinds him, raising a hand up to shield his eyes from its light as he looks around him.

He doesn't even have to call Spacewalker's name for him to be at their side. "We need weapons."

He doesn't ask questions, and for that Bellamy is glad. It is only a matter of minutes before the guards notice his escape (again) and come after him, so speed is the priority right now.

When he turns to Clarke, she is standing with her back straight and her chin up, looking every bit like the princess she was always meant to be. His stomach does a weird flip at the sight of her – he'd missed her, god, was so lost without her – as he gives himself three seconds to admire her beauty.

"Ready to be a leader again?" he asks.

The smile she gives him, bright and dazzling, is the only answer he needs.


End file.
